


Nimble Musicians

by apocellipses



Category: Original Work
Genre: :-), Cryptids, Gen, HIV/AIDS, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Themes, LMAO, M/M, Small Towns, Supernatural Elements, Were-Creatures, sort of ? ? ? ? ? ?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-07-14 13:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16041104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocellipses/pseuds/apocellipses
Summary: (THIS IS THE FIRST DRAFT!!! I AM PUKING THIS OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)Doorway, Vermont exports enough lumber to support the 2,000 people living there. It's far enough from the highway so that stumbling upon it isn't so much an accident as it is fate. But life in Doorway, Vermont is anything but unremarkable. Just as it is in Doorway, Idaho; in Doorway, Arizona; in Doorway, Montréal. Doorways across the country welcome the strange creatures that roam North America, provide them shelter, a place to call home.In Doorway, Vermont, Bryce Hernandez is in love. And in Doorway, Vermont, being in love can be dangerous.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> two bros chilling in a hot tub five feet apart cause they have different personal bubbles and respect each others boundaries

Bryce wakes with the sun. Cold bits of gravel tossed in with late autumn’s rotting leaves make for an uncomfortable bed post-transformation night; all he wants after a full moon is a soft bed to caress his screaming trapezius and calf muscles, which usually take the brunt of the night’s beatings. He’s completely naked, as usual, and phoneless. 

This is the fourth time this year he’s woken up in these woods after a full moon, which means whatever Wys is doing, it’s not working. 

He walks sorely out of the woods, using the fairly obvious claw gouges in the ground to guide him, and approaches Wilson & Wilson’s Auto Repair, which won’t be open yet. Grant Wilson is behind the counter. Bryce mumbles an ashamed hello. 

“Mornin’,” says Grant, noting his nakedness with no interest. This is a near-monthly occurrence. 

“Do you have an extra pair of sweatpants?” Bryce pauses. “And can I borrow your phone?” 

“Mmmhm.” Grant looks like he’s about to fall asleep on his feet. He despises working reception, but no one does it as well as him. “Phone’s there—” He gestures to the counter. “And a change of clothes is in the supply closet.” 

The supply closet, used only in front lobby emergencies, is next to the unisex bathroom (for customers only). Bryce shuts himself in to change. He barely fits. 

“So… rough night?” he asks Grant when he comes out. 

“Just a lot of the same shit. Not as rough as yours, 'm guessing.” Grant is doing something with the computer’s database system, looking up a customer’s number or something. “Go ahead and make your call.” 

That’s code for _please leave as soon as you can_. Bryce picks up the phone and dials the only number he has memorized. 

It rings for a long time before it’s picked up. 

“What the FUCK do you want? It’s six in the morning!” 

“Sorry,” Bryce mumbles, “it was full moon last night.” 

The other line goes silent, but for the sticky breaths of someone who just woke up. 

“How bad is it?” asks the voice on the other end. 

“Not bad!” he says, hastily. “I didn’t—I just need you to pick me up. I ran to the woods again. Please?” 

There’s another long silence, then: 

“Fuck you.”

The line goes dead. 

“Didn’t sound happy,” Grant mutters. 

“He wasn’t.” 

“That explains it.” 

Bryce sits in the customer waiting area next to the stack of car magazines he doesn’t understand and waits. 

The entire town only takes ten minutes to get across by car, and that’s if you’re going the speed limit. Beck arrives seven minutes later in his pajamas (boxer shorts with outlines of unicycles on them), idles his car outside, and yells from the safety of the driver’s seat that he’s not wearing shoes, and Bryce had better get his ASS out here, it’s FRIGID and the car’s heater is broken, and that does NOT mean he’s shelling out half a grand to get it fixed, Grant, not if the world froze over tomorrow. 

Bryce slides apologetically into the passenger’s side. “I’m sorry, dude. I thought Wys worked it out.” 

“You owe me coffee and a better day off.” If words could scowl, Beck’s are. “I can’t just haul my ass out here whenever and pick you up because Wysteria can’t tie knots good.” His russet eyebrows are pushed together furiously over his nose. Days off, Bryce knows, are for sleeping, practicing, getting stoned, eating out. Not being jostled awake by a phone call from his stranded best friend. 

But, no matter how he’s complained, he’s come to pick Bryce up every time. 

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Bryce suggests. “We just went grocery shopping.” 

Beck jams the brake hard enough to make Bryce think he has a personal grudge against the traffic light ahead. “I want cinnamon rolls.” 

“I can do that.” 

“I want like, three cinnamon rolls.” 

“We have some in the freezer.” 

“And I want to go back to sleep.” 

“You can use my bed.” Beck loves Bryce’s full-sized mattress, but never admits it aloud. 

“And you’ll make me cinnamon rolls.” 

Bryce can feel Beck’s yellow eyes glaring a hole through his head. He nods and tries not to look amused. “I’ll make us cinnamon rolls. Hey, least you get to see the sunrise.” 

“I see the sun every day,” he growls. “I don’t want to watch it wake up.” 

They turn off Main Street. Beck swings a wild U-turn into the only parking spot left on the road and wrestles the key out of the ignition. “Wys is up, right?” 

“Probably.” Wysteria gets up for yoga at, like, five-thirty every morning. 

Bryce watches Beck get out of the car and slouch his way to the door. He's changed his hair for the new week, wearing it in some fancy twist-out style that Bryce, with hair the texture of dead grass, can't wrap his mind around. His deep brown skin hides the remnants of soft muscle, from when they’d both joined the high school’s weightlifting team. Beck’s always done better at sports than Bryce, but hasn’t ever been able to stick to one; as a teenager, he’d tried cross-country, swimming, ice hockey, and then after he’d decided school was no good, simply sprinting around town after the sun set. Has to do something with that pent-up energy. And even though he doesn’t do much upper-body training, he still has good shoulders, lifting shoulders. Bryce is, frankly, very overweight, and doesn’t have anything to boast with his shirt off; he doesn’t have to contend with the same sort of roiling, under-the-surface pressure. His outlets come monthly. But Beck… 

Beck is staring at him with an expression almost approaching concern. “Yo. Dude. You coming?” 

Sometimes when he zones out it means he’s about to go full wolf, so the concern is warranted. He reaches for the car door. “Yeah.” 

Beck turns away again and Bryce follows, looking indomitably at his own feet. 

The door to their house has always been pretty fragile, but semi-monthly attacks on its frame have left it splintered and hanging by a thread of white-painted wood. Bryce does his best not to touch it, for fear that mere contact with him will make the door collapse. 

On the living room rug, Wys is balanced precariously on her hands. Bryce tries not to stare. Beck does not afford her the same courtesy. “What’s that?” 

Wys grunts. The remainder of her body weight is propped, via right hip, on her elbows. Bryce wonders how early she’ll get carpal tunnel syndrome from this. 

“Side crow,” she says, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. 

“Doesn’t it hurt?” he asks, heading past her into Bryce’s bedroom and closing the door. Not waiting for an answer is Beck's specialty.

She watches him serenely before standing. 

“Sorry about last night.” 

“It’s okay,” Bryce mutters. “I got my pants back from the auto shop.” 

“Oh. Thank god. Now you can put them back before the next full moon.” Wysteria is gymnast short and has more muscle than both the boys put together. 

“So you don’t think it’s working,” Bryce says, miserably. 

“Yeah, I mean, unless you escaping and running into the woods is what you call ‘working’ now.” She pulls the package of cinnamon rolls out of the freezer. Bryce brightens. 

“I was gonna make those today!” 

“I figured. He looked like he was ready to beat on you. Appease him with sugar before it’s too late.” Wys tosses them on the counter and goes back to her workout, leaving Bryce to prepare the breakfast. 

The cinnamon rolls are baking in the oven and a pot of coffee is brewing when Beck emerges, dark circles still prominent under his eyes, from Bryce’s bedroom. 

“Can’t sleep,” he grumbles. “Need food.” 

“Give it twenty minutes,” Bryce tells him. “Eat a banana.” 

“If you try to make me eat healthy food I’ll revolt.” Beck peers into the oven. “They look ready. Take them out.” 

“No.” 

“I’ll bake them faster.” 

“No.” 

“I think flambéing them at a thousand degrees is better than slow-cooking them at three-fifty.” 

“It isn’t. You’ve tried that.” 

Beck wrinkles his nose. “What am I supposed to do for twenty minutes?” 

“Go get some coffee and relax?” Bryce suggests. “Watch the yoga show. She’s turning herself into a pretzel. It’s neat.” 

“Neat,” he scoffs, but obliges, nabbing Bryce’s favorite mug from the cramped kitchen cabinet as he goes. 

Bryce cuts a banana into thick coins and begins to eat it, one slice at a time. 

“So.” Beck has made himself comfortable on the couch, one eye on Wysteria, the other on his coffee. “What happened?” 

“What?”

“Last night. What didn’t work?” 

Bryce chews at the skin by his thumbnail. Beck knows what didn’t work. He’s seen full moons firsthand. He knows what it’s like. There’s no reason for him to be asking this. 

“I don’t know,” he says, finally. “I don’t remember.” 

“He just shredded ‘em,” Wys says from where she kneels on the carpet. “It just wasn’t strong enough. I might have tied them too tight. I dunno. He’s a big guy.” 

“It’s all the muscles,” Bryce says. 

Beck snorts. “What?” 

Bryce is hurt. “You don’t have to act so taken aback. It’s a joke. About my muscles.” 

“Your theoretical muscles. Your dream muscles.” 

“Hey.” Wys interrupts his response. “Bryce, did you take your meds last night?” 

“Um.” He doesn’t remember. The act of swallowing pills is like locking the front door or turning the burner off—which is to say it’s done by the deep, automatic part of your brain, and it requires some checking. The number of capsules in his prescription bottle looks the same as it always does. “I don’t know. Why?” 

“Well…” says Wysteria, and lapses into deep thought. 

Beck glances at Bryce, then back at her. 

“Do tell?” he prompts. 

“I don’t know. It’s just a hunch.” She frowns at the carpet. “But you’ve forgotten your meds a couple of times before the full moon, and you don’t usually end up…you know, breaking our door down and passing out naked in the woods. So I’m wondering if that’s a viable strategy. It could help during waning.” 

Bryce studies the little orange bottle. He isn’t supposed to skip doses. The doctor who prescribed them was serious, bordering on scary, about that. 

“If it’s only for the night before,” he says, “maybe.” 

Beck laughs, humorlessly, in sharp barks. “That sounds like a really stupid idea.” 

“Repairing that door’ll be expensive,” Bryce mutters. 

“Fuck you. Fuck you. You’re not gonna stop taking your life-saving medication just to save a couple hundred bucks.” 

“Missing one dose isn’t a big deal.” 

“How about the morning after? How about the waning? Hey, did you take your pill this morning? Huh?” 

Bryce opens his mouth to retort—Beck is right, he’d forgotten, despite staring the meds in the metaphorical face—when the oven timer goes off. Beck is distracted immediately by the prospect of eating. All exhaustion forgotten, he emerges from the depths of the couch cushions and reaches bare-handed for the tray. 

“Watch your hands,” Wys says without thinking. Beck is already pulling out the first sticky, doughy bun. Bryce sees it squish under his fingers and wonders if it’s not cooked enough yet. 

“Ouf gerph imf rengang,” Beck says. 

“What?” 

He swallows and tries again. “Your debt is repaid.” 

“Okay, good. Please put the tray down.” Beck obliges, happy to pluck another cinnamon roll from it with his newly freed hand. They’re still too hot for any normal person to touch, and it seems like he’s determined to eat as many as he can before they start. 

“Since I’m here anyway. Band practice?” he asks through a more manageable mouthful. 

“Mmm.” Wys has migrated from the rug to the kitchen, following the scent of baking sugar. “Maybe.” 

“Obviously.” He starts on his second roll and grabs a third. “I think we should play a song I like this time.” 

“You’ll like David Bowie eventually,” Wys says. 

“Heroes doesn’t even have a melody line. He sounds drunk in the recording.” 

“I will kill you, Beck. I will strangle you with my bare hands.” 

Bryce catches himself staring again at the medication. He should really take his morning pill. Although if Wys is right, not taking it will make the next week a lot easier. Smashing through the door will probably be the worst of the consequences for this month, but he can’t ever forget how Beck got the scar on his abdomen. It might be worth it to give it a shot. His doctor would kill him, though. 

“Bryce. Bryce. Bryce,” Beck is saying. He focuses his attention back where it’s useful, towards Wys and Beck’s argument. 

“We’ve already talked about this,” he says. “We have a playlist.” 

“I hate the playlist,” Beck says. 

Wys looks like she wants to smack him. “You _made_ the playlist. We already agreed on a way. Pick a song, dude.” 

“These are really good,” Bryce comments around a still-piping cinnamon roll, and then subsides into an embarrassed silence under the others’ looks. 

Beck puts the music on shuffle and the three of them count, softly, to the beat of his thumb as he skips song after song. When they reach ten, he stops. Wys erupts in triumphant fist pumping. Beck offers a grin that he quickly retires. Bryce can't put his finger on the song until the lyrics start.

“ _There must be some kind of way outta here_ —"

“Okay. Bryce, I’m borrowing your guitar.” 

“’Kay.” Bryce is fine sticking to bass. 

Wys’ room is set up in parts. A long, faux-wood desk blocks off the study half from the music half. Her drum set is in the corner. They sit in a circle on the floor and eat cinnamon rolls. Beck scrolls through AZLyrics on his phone, trying to memorize them before they start playing. Bryce polishes off his breakfast quickly and goes to wash his hands. 

“Nerd,” says Beck when he comes back with the bass guitar and a little bottle of lemon oil. 

“This thing was like, three hundred bucks for each of us,” Bryce protests. “I’m just taking care of it.” He sits cross-legged on Wys’ bed and begins to tune it. Then, on second thought, he pulls out his phone and looks the song up just to make sure he’s tuning it right. 

“You ready?” Beck asks. Bryce isn’t. He nods. 

When Beck sings, it’s birdsong—he doesn’t mean that in a cruel, literal way, though now, with no shirt to hide the fledgling feathers on his elbows and up his arms, the metaphor works. What Bryce thinks of when he hears Beck sing is what he thinks of when he wakes up in the forest after a full moon, sun peeking through the trees, leaves stuck in his hair, a crick in his back. He thinks of sprawling, stomach-dropping, utter freedom. Fresh, mountain air. Being seventeen and having nothing to do, staying in the woods longer than he has to. Naked and feral in his human form, listening to the chickadees call. 

“ _All along the watchtower_ —shit—” Beck’s voice cracks. He’s putting on a grungy, punky kind of voice that’s more goofy than sexy. It’s deeply intriguing to Bryce, who keeps strumming the song’s chords without really thinking about it. Wys has a miniature fit of passion behind the drums before cascading into Jimi’s guitar solo, which Beck fucks up magnificently because he hasn’t practiced. 

The song finishes like the end of a marathon. Bryce feels like he should have worked a little harder, but doesn’t feel like standing up would have been worth it. Beck and Wys high five. 

“You have to stand and like, rock if you’re gonna play bass,” Beck orders, pointing a fingertip blackened with the heat of the tray he’d pulled, barehanded, from the oven. “You looked. _So_ bored.” 

“I’ll be on rhythm guitar next time.” Bryce can’t seem to take his eyes off of him. 

Then he lets out a roaring belch. It smells like cinnamon. 

“Gross,” Wys says flatly. Beck grins. So does Bryce, for a different reason. 

“When do you need to leave?” he asks Wys. 

“Mm, my first class starts at nine. I could stay here until a quarter ‘till if someone gave me a ride.” She flutters her eyelashes. Beck looks disgusted. 

“I’ve got to meet Lisa at ten thirty. I’ll walk with you,” Bryce offers. “Maybe they’ll count it as work hours if I go early and shelve some books.” 

“So you can pay your share of rent,” she suggests. 

“No,” he retorts, and then, “…yeah. Sorry.” 

Her lips quirk up. “Pick another song, Beck.”


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do not Like this one, but that's what first drafts are for!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! my soul is dead on the ground

Lisa tells him as soon as he arrives at her office door. She doesn’t take her eyes off the paper she’s grading. 

“Human staying on the east side of town. How was your full moon?” 

Human? Like, normal, basic, vanilla human? When someone new gets into town, everyone finds out within the day what their deal is. It's almost never just a human.

“Bad.” 

He’s brought his own grading, even though it’s too much to hope that he’ll have time to get it done. He tosses the folder onto her desk. “What about yours?” 

“Oh, I watched _Tom and Jerry_ reruns with my husband.” Lisa is domesticated, which means she doesn’t wake up on forest floors unless she wants to. “Why’d you want to see me, Bryce?” 

When Bryce talks to Lisa, he always feels like he’s being lectured by a substitute teacher who’s unsure if he’s actually broken a rule. He scuffs the carpet with the toe of his boot. “I’m just thinking of… changing my major.” 

She actually does look up at him at that. Her lipstick is a fading shade of orangey red. “Fantastic. And where am I foisting you off this time?”

“Philosophy.” He wants to tell her about Foucault, his theories of power and discourse, how he believed institutionalized knowledge is just another way for the powerful to control the weak, and his critiques of gender and sexuality as limiting constructs of society. How he, in the mid-80s, had succumbed to AIDS after engaging repeatedly in unprotected sex with other men. 

There’s a picture on Lisa’s desk of her first wedding anniversary. Bryce looks directly into her smiling husband’s grainy monochrome eyes.  
He says nothing. 

“Philosophy. That’s a pretty far leap.” Lisa has long learned not to lecture him about these frequent changes in field. If Bryce ever gets his BA, it’ll only be so he can come back and get another. “We’ll miss you in linguistics.” 

“I’ll still be your TA,” he offers. 

“You’d damn well better. I only assigned weekly homework because I knew it’d be you grading it.” Lisa uses her own Georgia accent as an example in intro-level classes of how many vowel sounds English really has. 

“I sucked at languages anyway,” he says, ruefully. 

“You did. Freshman Spanish class? I was ashamed of you, Bryce. Thought you were Mexican.” 

Face hot and eyes down, he shrugs. Bryce’s parents are from Puerto Rico. 

“I just need your signature for the registrar.” 

“Done and done. Come visit, though, hun.” Her eyes are already back on the student paper that she’s grading. 

“I will,” he says, and means it. Lisa is nice. She’s bought him drinks, given him advice when he’s changed majors before. She’d been thrilled when he’d decided to try out linguistics.

“So… new arrival?” he prompts her, when it’s clear they’ve run out of conversation. She perks up. Lisa loves when new humans come to town. Dogs love people. 

“Rory Danvers. Comes from Michigan. Apparently, he met someone here online and wants to visit. They were all on this… Reddit forum thing, talking about cryptic folk and whatnot.”

"You said he's staying in the east part of town,” Bryce asks. 

“Yep. Down near Grant’s. Someone’s doing an AirBnB for him. Kinda weird, havin' an AirBnB here, if you think about it.” 

“Weird,” he echoes thoughtfully. He and Wys live on the eastern side of town. “Thanks for signing, Lisa.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

Bryce’s next class isn’t until three. He leaves the building, blinking at the October sun. Doorway Community College is positioned just north of the downtown area, where all the various local breweries, charcuteries, and maple syrup emporiums live. Rory Danvers will arrive through Beau’s Diner, like anyone coming through the town, to avoid its defenses from firing. He starts walking. He texts Beck. 

_Hey dude come meet me @ Beau’s_

His phone buzzes within twenty seconds.  
_FUCK NO ITS MY DAY OFF_

_There’s a new guy coming to town_

He thinks. 

_\+ I’ll buy you coffee_

It takes Beck a while to respond this time. 

_ok give me 45min. dick_

Forty-five minutes is a luxurious amount of time for Beck to put clothes on and drive there. Bryce thinks he'll be there in twenty. 

There’s already a small crowd outside Beau’s when he arrives, but Rory Danvers isn’t there to greet it. Word, as usual, has traveled faster than its topic. Bryce scans the faces in the crowd and sees Grant, with his coworkers Ralph and Trent Jensen. 

“Hey,” he says, loud enough so some of the others in the crowd turn. “I thought you had to be at the shop.” 

Grant jerks his chin in greeting. “No one’s comin’ to get their car fixed when someone new’s arriving. I closed early.” Most likely just an excuse to get in a nap and a real meal. 

Trent, who’s the kind of guy that’s always wearing a brimmed hat, pipes in. “I heard you ended up in the woods last night.” 

Grant rolls his eyes, like he’s talked to Trent about etiquette before and never thought it would stick. 

“Yeah,” Bryce says. He doesn’t know where to go from there. “Um. Strong moon, I guess.” 

Strong moon? Nobody says that. That’s not even a thing. 

Trent nods, knowingly. “Good thing you’ve got us for the mornin' after.” 

“Mmm.” 

Ralph, who usually likes to let his younger brother talk himself into silence first, speaks up. “Beck coming?” 

“Yeah, eventually. It’s his day off. He didn’t wanna come down here.” Bryce looks around—a large percentage of the crowd consists of servers trying to avoid working. He catches the eye of one, Lily, who usually works the same shifts as Beck. She puts two fingers to her head and blows out her brains, then scrambles to pick them up before anyone steps on them. Bryce always forgets she can do that. 

“I think he’s gonna be nice. I think he’s twenty… twenty-three or something.” Trent cranes his neck as if Rory Danvers is hiding somewhere in the crowd already. Bryce gently squeezes past him; he’s standing in front of the door. 

For the crowd outside, it’s surprisingly empty in here. Bryce supposes no one wants to mob Rory Danvers. He flags one of the servers to bring him a green tea whenever. 

Beau’s is shaped like a capital L, with one leg much longer than the other. The long leg is where the food gets served, where the customers sit, and where the kitchen is. The short leg is for arrivals. At the junction, framed by glass, is a small gift shop. The sign boasts Vermont-only finds with a picture of a maple leaf and some mountains. Mostly, the shop sells snow globes that feature tiny snowboarders and sampler jars of maple syrup. There’s also a collection of overpriced “ORIGINAL Abenaki arrowheads—polished to perfection.” Whenever Wys comes to Beau’s, she spends sixty percent of her time glaring at the arrowheads and another thirty ranting about how there’s no syrup trees in Doorway. 

His waitress—he thinks her name is Jewel—smiles at him with the vague recognition of a fellow student as she places his tea on the table. “Here to greet the new guy?” 

“I guess,” he says. “He’s gonna be staying near where I live.” 

“I heard he’s coming through New York. Aren’t you from around there?” 

“Um.” The back of his neck prickles. “Not originally. I’ve been through, though.” 

“My family came through Pennsylvania.” Like Beck did. “Would you like milk in your tea?” 

“No. Um, no thanks.” 

She leaves him to his tea. He realizes Wys is gonna be furious with him if he doesn’t try to include her in the impromptu get-together. Even though she’s in class, he texts her. 

_At Beau’s to meet new kid. Come by after class?_

She probably has her phone silenced. Wys is a much better student than he is. Would probably be on the honors list every semester if she weren’t busy trying to keep her roommate from wrecking his shit every full moon. 

His phone buzzes with another text from Beck, but before he can read it, the door into arrivals opens. 

Rory Danvers is white, sort of stocky, with blond hair and freckles; kind of Bryce’s type, actually, if Bryce is allowed to have more than one type. He comes through the door eyes first. It’s hard to say whether or not he’s the kind of person who always looks like he’s preparing to be jumped, or if that’s specifically for this occasion, with this locale and these people. The waiters all find something fascinating in tidying up and try to avoid his lingering gaze, which drifts around the room until it settles on Bryce. 

Being inconspicuous never suited him. 

“Uh, hi. I’m Rory? Rory Danvers? I’m supposed to meet an, uh, Ace here. A girl named Ace.” 

Bryce tries not to look as blank as he feels. He would remember anyone in town with a name like Ace. 

“There’s a lot of people outside. Maybe she’s there,” he suggests. 

Rory looks nervously to the door, through which the mild clamor of about a hundred people milling about can be heard. 

“I’m Bryce,” Bryce tries, sticking out a hand. Rory’s expression doesn’t change as he shakes it, like Bryce is gonna grow wyvern claws and gouge his eyes out. “Ever been through Doorway before?” 

“No. I had… my last girlfriend was from… she knew about that stuff. Hi. I’m Rory.” He’s already said that. Bryce doesn’t point it out. “Do you live here? Are you, like, the welcoming committee?” 

“Ha, no, we don’t have one of those. I’m just here for tea.”

“Well, um, nice to meet you. I guess I’ll go out there and look for her.” He offers a midwesterner’s courtesy smile and heads for the door. 

He doesn’t make it past the threshold—a wave of Doorwayers spot an unfamiliar face and flood the place, buffeting him back until he’s against the next table over. 

“Is it safe to have all these, um, people in here?” Rory asks. 

Flattened by disbelief, Bryce scans the crowd. “I mean, there’s only a couple pyrokinetics living in town, and most of them are cool.” 

“Most of them?” 

“Um.” 

As though summoned by mention, Beck appears, wearing his usual long-sleeved shirt and jeans instead of pajama pants and a bare torso. He spots Bryce a second after Bryce sees him and beams a wide grin, barreling through the crowd towards him, which Bryce takes to mean he’s a little drunk. 

“Hey, man,” he says. “This is Rory. Rory, Beck.” 

“Hi,” says Rory, extending a hand to shake. “Are you visiting too?” 

Beck cocks his head. His deep brown hand almost completely envelops Rory’s pale pink one. “I live here.” 

“So you’re…” 

“Totally normal? Yep.” 

Rory makes a funny little “ahah!” sound at that. Beck smiles, pleased with his own joke. 

“Jewel!” he says as the waitress passes by, frazzled by the influx of customers. “Can I have a coffee!” 

“No, Beckett,” she snaps. 

Beck looks mildly hurt for a half-second. “I’m gonna make myself a coffee,” he says. “Don’t worry, Ror, I work here.” 

“ _Ror_?” Bryce asks him, just before his form shuffles back into the crowd. 

“Um. Okay. How about… you sit down with us?” Defeated, Bryce gestures to his booth. “People can come introduce themselves and you don’t have to stand in the middle of it.” 

“Thanks,” Rory says. “I'm fine with it. Being called Ror. Um. Rude question. What are you?” 

“Sorry?” 

“What kind of creature are you?” 

If Bryce had hackles right now, they would be up. 

He doesn’t have hackles. 

“I’m a werewolf.” 

There are those eyes again. The entire town could fit in those eyes. Rory’s expression changes from cautious optimism to excited bewilderment. “Cool!” 

Bryce isn’t sure whether to be flattered, embarrassed, or offended by this guy, so he settles on a polite mixture of the three. “Werepeople are really common, though. We have a discount night at bars here.” He is mildly aware of his phone buzzing in his pocket. Wys must be out of her class. “I can help you look for Ace, if you want.” 

“Can I ask you some questions?” Rory asks. 

“Uh.” How can he say no? “Yes.” 

“Do werewolves talk to each other when they’re animals? Can you talk to normal wolves? Do you eat raw meat? Could you turn a normal person into one of you?” 

Wondering at small town politeness and how it’s turned against him, Bryce mumbles something that should sound like the words yes and no at the same time. 

“I think it’s mostly genetic these days,” he says at last. That’s the one thing he can answer. “I mean, biting people. Not that civilized.” 

“Well, what about vampires? How does that work?” Rory has a vicious gleam in his eye. He definitely comes from some avid online mythology forum. 

Bryce is saved from admitting ignorance by Beck’s return. He plops down in the seat next to Rory, putting down his coffee mug with a whunk. 

“I heard you’re here for a girl,” he says. “What’s she look like? I know every girl here. Oh. Not in a gross way. I just mean I went to high school with, like, half of ‘em, and I make lattes for everyone who lives in this goddamn place.” 

He swigs back a generous half of his coffee. Rory leans slightly away from him, subconsciously, as most people tend to when they get close enough to feel the feverish heat he radiates. 

“Her name’s Ace. Well, her profile says that. I guess it’s not her real name.” 

Beck nods sagely like he’s ever met someone on the internet before. 

“She’s, she’s got brown hair. It’s curly. And her face is like—” He fumbles in his pocket for his phone. “I have a picture. Hang on.” 

Beck examines it. 

“Shit. That’s Willow. Oh my god, wait until Wys hears about this.”

“It is? She meets people online?” This is entirely new to Bryce. 

“Oh, you know her.” Rory has a goofy smile on his face. He turns the phone to show it to Bryce. “I guess Ace is her internet name. She’s great, huh?” 

Bryce can neither confirm or deny that, at least not in the way Rory’s asking. It would be like agreeing that his little sister is hot. He’s seen that exact picture before on her Snapchat story. 

“Willow’s cool. She, um…” Bryce pauses, backpedals inelegantly.

Ever helpful, Beck takes over. “She’s, yeah, cool. Probably one of the most interesting people in town. She knows where all the cool places are.” 

“Yeah, I looked on Atlas Obscura, but they didn’t have anything about… you know.” Rory’s eyes dart from left to right. “The cryptid stuff.” 

"People are a little secretive about—" Bryce starts, when Beck stands abruptly and almost knocks over the tea.

“I’m gonna get another coffee.”

Bryce grabs his wrist. “You are not. Sit down.” 

He tugs his arm free of Bryce's grip, indignant, but settles back into his seat. Bryce continues. "It's hard to get a hold of Willow, though. She's kind of off the grid."

"Obviously not," Beck snorts. "She's meeting dudes online."

Rory looks mildly offended. 

"I'll see if Wys knows where she is." 

“It’s so weird to hear her real name. Who’s Wys? Is she…”

He leaves it hanging, which obviously means he wants to know what ancient myth she comes from. 

“Willow's sister,” says Beck, pointing to Bryce. "His roommate."

“Well, I… hmm. I mean. Is she a werewolf, too?” 

“No,” Bryce says hastily. “Just likes dogs. Ha.” 

A hundred percent of Beck’s yellow gaze is on him, no longer manically pleasant. The warm, good vibes he brought with him have been blown out. Bryce realizes the temperature around them has dropped. 

“Oh. So he told you." Beck is talking to Rory without looking at him. 

“Yep. He tolerated my questions.” Rory laughs, self-aggrandizing in a way that avoids all actual guilt. 

Beck narrows his eyes. Rory’s attention, after lingering between the two in search of the petered-out conversation, returns to him. 

“And how about you?” 

“I have my own place. Closer to work.”

“No, I meant.” He hesitates. “What’s your story? Why’re you here?” 

Beck grins terrifyingly at him. “I live here.” 

This isn’t Beck’s usual spiteful fucking with people, and Bryce supposes it shouldn’t be. Actually, he supposes Rory’s questions are sort of invasive, and there’s nothing Beck despises more than prying eyes, ears, and mouths. 

“Right,” says Rory patiently, as though Beck misunderstands by accident, “but why do you live here?” 

That’s when Bryce notices that Beck’s hand has caught on fire. 

“Oh, shit.” He scoots out of the booth. “Oh, hey, we have to go. We’re gonna pick up Wys. It’s an emergency. Bye.” And he leads Beck firmly outside by the arm before Rory can say anything. 

“Where does that guy get off?” Beck splutters. His breath smells like bottom-shelf whisky. 

“You are not driving,” Bryce says, firmly. “Jesus, Beck, it’s not even noon…” They’ve had this conversation before, and it's always unproductive. He hairpins. “You don’t have to get defensive. He’s just a stranger who wants to know about—” He interrupts himself to lean away, because when Beck points at him, his sparking finger glows an accusing, angry red. 

“You told him. Confidential information.”

“Everybody in town knows I turn into a wolf sometimes. He was gonna find out anyway.” Bryce can no longer grip Beck’s forearm for fear of being burned. He hopes he’ll just follow him to the car. “Give me your keys.” 

“I’m fine. Fuck you. I drove here.” Beck’s heightened with emotion, senseless with the buzz of breakfast drinking, and looks like he’s about to combust in the parking lot. “Fuck you and fuck Rorrick.” 

“I…” Bryce remembers how hard it is to drive Beck’s finicky stick shift. “His name is Rory.” 

Beck slides into the driver’s seat, flexing his fingers. The fire is yellow and orange and hot enough to light a cigarette—one of his favorite tricks in high school. He shakes his hand like he’s dipped it into water and the fire goes out. 

Hopelessly, Bryce climbs into the passenger’s side and turns the radio down from full blast. Beck takes a drag of his cigarette like it's life-saving oxygen.

“Confidential. Ground rules. You broke the rules.” Beck can’t seem to stress it enough. “Okay, so I fuckin’ caught on fire a little bit. He was being a dick. You can’t just ask people whatever the fuck you want. And _you_ can’t just tell them.” 

The acrid tobacco smell is making Bryce sick and dizzy. He leans his head on the window. “Just drive.”

Beck obliges, in burning silence. Bryce knows why he’s mad. It still doesn’t seem fair. 

When he throws the parking brake in front of Bryce’s house, he doesn’t get out. 

“Come on,” Bryce says. 

Beck taps his fingers on the wheel, waiting for him to get out. 

“Come _on_ ,” he insists. “You’re not giving me the silent treatment. Come on.” 

Beck is one hundred percent giving him the silent treatment, but he leaves the keys in the ignition and gets out of the car.

“I’m going to pick up Wys.” Which is, Bryce knows, exactly what he wanted him to say. Beck still shrugs like he doesn’t care. 

“Please don’t smoke in our house,” he adds. 

Beck flips him off and stomps on the butt before disappearing inside. 

Bryce chews his thumbnail.

Wys has texted him, letting him know she’s on her way to Beau’s. By now, she must be there already, but knowing Wys, she’s brought a couple friends from class down there for lunch and hasn’t missed him. He texts back anyway. 

_Watch the new guy. He’s really new. Had to leave with_

He deletes rapidly. 

_He asks a lot of questions and we_

Delete.

_Beck was being a huge_

He takes a deep breath and reminds himself to be fair. 

_Be back in 10. Cya_

The car still smells like smoke when he gets in the driver’s seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bryce, running second degree burn under cold water: he does this all the time i'm so tired


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild-mannered werewolf here, just trying to live his life

Beck is good at the silent treatment, but it rarely lasts more than a day. Things go more or less back to normal between the two of them. Wys, that same day, had introduced Rory to his sister, and Bryce has seen neither hide nor hair of the newcomer since that first meeting. 

Now their energy is aimed towards the rest of the week. The waning of the moon leaves Bryce completely dependent on his medication to maintain anything resembling a healthy immune system. His professors already know to send him homework assignments ahead of time—this week, he thinks he might just not go to class at all. 

He wakes up at eleven the next morning, which means he’s missed the window of time to take his morning meds, and three of his professors have emailed him essay assignments. Maybe he’ll just go back to sleep. 

He doesn’t get the chance to close his eyes before Wys knocks on his door.

“Someone’s here to see you,” she says, words echoing with sympathy that he has to get out of bed. 

“Beck?” he ask, knowing it isn’t. Beck would just walk right in. 

“No. A ‘Mix Petkovic.’”

“Oh. What? Like a DJ name?” He doesn’t bother pulling on a shirt. Pajama pants are going to have to be good enough. 

The person at the door wears a grey sweater with slightly darker grey pants. Bryce can’t tell whether they’re a man or a woman. 

“Bryce Hernandez?” they say, looking him up and down. Their pupils are barely slits in their soil-brown eyes. Bryce suddenly feels very naked. 

“Um… Mix…?” 

They laugh. “Yes. Mr. Hernandez, my name is Mx. Petkovic. Call me Ty.” 

“Oh. Like a formal thing.” Like, maybe he wasn’t supposed to try and figure out whether they’re male or female. Dumb, stupid idiot. “I’m kind of sick right now, so…” 

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m here because you’re a member of the wereperson registry. I travel between Doorways to invite people like you to join our exclusive program…” 

Bryce realizes that he’s leaning heavily on the doorframe and makes an effort to stand upright. What a slob. Not wearing a shirt is one thing; being completely unable to support himself on two feet is another. They don’t seem to have noticed, so absorbed in their speech are they. But their features appear waxy and sunken, like they haven’t gotten sleep in several decades. 

They’ve stopped talking. Bryce realizes that they’re waiting for a response. 

“Um. Yeah.” He tries not to sway on his feet. “Sorry, exclusive program? For… werefolk.” 

“Anyone who transforms unwillingly, though werecreatures are certainly the most common. There is a direct correlation between the domesticity of the target and the capacity to advance your control of transformative powers…” 

They’re using a lot of big words that Bryce can’t wrap his brain around. He’s dealt with a few Jehovah’s Witnesses before, but they're nothing like this person. They’re usually not dressed to cozily, for one thing. And they don’t normally look so… nonhuman. 

Wys taps him on the shoulder and he nearly bangs his head on the top of the doorframe. Ty Petkovic is waiting for a response again. 

“What’s this about?” she asks. 

“I’m here to…” Ty looks at Bryce and surmises that he’s absorbed none of their monologue. “We train people like you to control their transformations. Would you like to sign up?” 

“Ummm.” 

“You should.” Wys pokes him. “Mindfulness. I’ve been telling you.”

“I just need an email and phone number,” Ty says pleasantly. 

He gives in and writes his contact information on their clipboard. “Thanks.” 

“You’ll receive an email within the week!” They seem mildly surprised to have snared a customer, and eager to leave before he changes his mind. “Thank you for your time. Feel better.” 

Bryce collapses on the couch as soon as the door closes. 

“Ughhh-I-feel-like-shit.” 

Wys pats him on the shoulder. “You need water.” 

“You’re a self-care gremlin.” 

Her patting grows harder. “I’m not a gremlin.”

“Ow. Okay.” 

“That program. Did he mention how much it costs?” 

“Umm.” 

Post-transformation usually feels like a miserable couple days of flu. He’s particularly out of it this week; maybe Wolf Bryce did some extra reps. Either way, it sucks, and trying to process any of what he half-heard from Ty hurts his head. 

“I don’t know. Maybe the email will say.” 

“If it’s reasonable, you should go. They might know more than the doctors in town, anyway. It would be nice to be around other people who…” 

He zones out again. Sometimes being around Wys is worse than being in a lecture. She does her best, and she’s a great friend, but sometimes he just needs to lie on the couch with his face in a pillow and… and… 

Bryce wakes up to a loud rapping at the door. He must not have been asleep for long, because Wys is still sitting on the arm of the couch near his head, scrolling through Instagram. She doesn’t notice him open his eyes. 

“Christ,” she mutters, getting up. “What is it this time.” 

“I brought beef jerky!” Beck announces as soon as the door is open. “Where’s the sick puppy?” 

Bryce raises his hand from the couch. 

“I thought you were asleep.” Wys settles crossly back on the couch. “You’ll be awake for beef jerky?” 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Like. Yeah,” Beck agrees. “Obviously.” 

Normally this is where a rapport is established and the three of them lapse into bickering or gossip. But the events of the other day hang over Beck and Bryce like smog. Bryce wonders if Beck has caught on fire since then. He wonders if he’s already started drinking today. 

He shoves his hand inside the family-size bag of jerky, breaking the silence with plastic bag crinkles. “I’m starving.” 

“I know,” Beck says. “Idiot. Wys says you didn’t eat breakfast.” 

“I was asleep!” he protests. “And then some guy came to our door…” 

“Guy?”

“I mean, no, they weren’t really a guy. It was… some kind of vampire, I think, and they wanted me to join their training camp.” 

He expects Beck to scoff, but to his surprise, he looks thoughtful. 

“What did you say?” 

“I gave them my email,” he grumbles. “And my number.” 

“Hm.” Beck takes a handful of jerky and settles cross-legged on the floor. “Do you think…” 

He stops. 

Bryce knows what Beck's stopped himself from saying, but those kinds of places consider Beck a liability, if not an insurance scam on legs. To even imagine that a training camp would allow a walking fire hazard anywhere near its grounds would be wishful thinking. Beck thinks that both wishes and thinking are stupid. 

“They said they’d be in touch within the week.”

“You should do it,” Wys repeats. She doesn’t go on to explain herself this time. Instead she just glares at him. He feels a twinge of guilt for falling asleep earlier.  
Beck is nodding with her, mostly unaware of the silent exchange. “I mean, you look like shit, dude.” 

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” 

“You’d better.” Beck's eyes drill into him. Because these opportunities—this support and acknowledgement—don’t arise for people like Beck and Wys. Because Bryce is lucky to be so common. 

He definitely can’t handle this right now. He rolls off the couch. “I’m going back to bed.” 

“But I just got…” Beck must read Bryce’s mood in his retreating back. “Okay. Get some rest, Bry.” 

His stomach flips at the nickname. 

“Goodnight.” 

He closes the door to the sound of Wys reminding him it’s noon. 

— 

Bryce goes to the doctor’s office the next day. Dr. Dillard frowns at his vitals like they personally insulted her. 

“You’ve gained weight,” she says. “And your blood pressure is very high. Any change in lifestyle since your last appointment in April?” 

“No.” 

His gaze is fixed on his feet as she rattles off the list of medications he’s on. “Any changes in prescriptions?”

“No.”

“And have symptoms from the tenofovir worsened recently?” 

It takes him a second to realize she’s using the generic names of his HIV medications. Funny. He always pronounced it different in his head. “Um. No. I don’t think so, but…” He hazards a glance upwards. She’s listening politely, laptop screen at half-mast to demonstrate her dedication to his health. 

“…Um, the last few full moons have been… harder than usual, and the recovery period is… prolonged. It feels like flu. And I’m wondering if the transformations make the medication… not… work. Because it definitely feels like I'm getting sick.” 

Stupid of him, in all of his years of college classes, to never have taken a biology course. 

She types thoughtfully into her tilted-down computer. “Patients who share similar circumstances have reported difficult recoveries in the past.” 

“So it’s normal?” He doesn’t know why that’s such a relief. 

“It’s a common experience. Transformations are exhausting. It’s natural to feel tired and ill afterwards, especially if you can’t control them.” 

Time to stare at his shoes again. 

“Dr. Dillard, do you know about any training programs for cryptic folk who transform? Someone came to my door this morning…” 

“Hmm. No. Might be worth looking into, though. Watch out for scammers, though.” 

“Yeah.” Of course. But Ty surely wouldn’t. They’d seemed too eager, too straightforward, too impatient to get their message across. Beck always chastises him for being too trusting, letting people take advantage of him, but Bryce can’t imagine Ty doing anything cruel. Anyways, they’re only a recruiter—it’s not as though they have anything to gain, faking people out like that. 

“You should ask around town. Maybe go to one of those meetings you avoid.” 

“Okay.” He stands up. “I’m gonna go.” 

Bryce walked here and he plans to walk back. Beck is at work right now, but even if he didn’t need his car, Bryce doesn’t trust himself behind the wheel feeling like he does. 

So far, he’s successfully avoided being noticed passing by the house that Rory is staying in. No such luck this time. The newcomer is seated on the porch with an iPad and a cigarette. Funny—Bryce never took him for a smoker. 

“Bryce!” he calls, and then waves, like yelling across the street isn’t enough of a greeting. Reluctantly, Bryce changes his trajectory. 

“Afternoon,” he says, hoping one-word responses will clue Rory in to the fact that he has a bed to lie in. 

“I haven’t seen you since I got here!” He appears to be watching some kind of live-action drama on his iPad. Bryce tilts his head and recognizes the frozen face of agent Dale Cooper.

At Rory’s gesticulating, he gives in and sits in the other porch chair. The furniture is new. Whoever owns this house must have come to town to decorate for its guest. Cover up the asbestos. Put in a new water heater. “I’ve been kind of sick.”

Rory leans ever-so-slightly away. “Oh?”

“It’s seasonal.” 

Rory waits expectantly for him to clarify. He doesn’t. 

“Well, feel better. How are things in Bryceville?” 

Why does this guy act like they’re old friends? “Fine. Changed my major.” 

“You’re in college? I didn’t know you were that young.” 

“I’m not.” He feels his ears heat up. “I just haven’t graduated.” 

“Well, wait, then.” Rory seems to be doing some complex math in his head. “How old are you?” 

Bryce gets the vague feeling that this is a rude question, and can nearly hear Beck puffing up indignantly in his head. “Twenty-seven.” 

“That’s what I would’ve guessed! Late twenties. Early thirties. I was thinking, ‘he doesn’t look college-aged.’” Rory nods like he’s proud of himself. Bryce feels exceedingly old. In a town where half the residents are over forty, he supposes it should be considered a rare luxury. It doesn’t feel so luxurious, though. 

“Well, Bryce!” Rory says, before Bryce can get a handle of himself to reply. “I forgot to offer. Do you smoke?” 

“Not anymore,” he mumbles. 

“In that case, would you like to come in? I can show you around the place.” He laughs, stubs his cigarette into a nearby ashtray. “I didn’t do the decorating, but someone else ought to see the hard work the owner did.” 

“Uh, I actually…” Bryce’s mind goes blank of excuses. He can hardly say no to Rory’s harmlessly friendly smile. Perhaps he’s been too harsh in his initial dislike. Perhaps Beck’s constant vigilance has tainted his first impression. “…Sure.” 

Whoever owns the place did do a good job of making it livable. Whenever Bryce had passed it before, his eyes had skipped over it as yet another falling-down building on the east side of town. The living room, which he’d always thought would be filled with dust and lit only by what the window allowed in from outside, now has a homely, rustic, cabin-in-the-woods charm, complete with a handwoven area rug and simple, comfortable furniture. A wide-screen TV opposes the austere sofa, displaying a mid-investigation image of Dana Scully. How many different devices does Rory need to watch TV dramas from the 90’s? 

Off past the frozen frame of the X-Files he can see Rory’s bedroom, bed unmade and curtains drawn. If he brought a suitcase, it’s now covered in piles of laundry. He averts his eyes, feeling like he’s snooping. To the right, he sees a kitchen, much tidier. A bit too tidy. That’s explained when he catches sight of a pile of bright orange, square packets stacked in the corner of the kitchen counter. Looks like Rory’s still stuck in the phase where he eats like he’s in college. Maybe he is. Their conversation had never turned to _his_ age. Bryce wonders where they sell ramen in Doorway, or if Rory traveled all the way to the Walmart to buy some. 

“So, um.” Rory gestures, vaguely. Did he not think this through? Is Bryce supposed to be the one entertaining here? 

“It’s real nice,” he offers hesitantly. “I never met the owner. Are they nice?” 

“Oh, she arranged all of this over the phone. She’s cool, though.” 

Bryce senses a conversational thread and grabs it before it slips past him. “I think she lives in California and just owns a bunch of property other places. That Doorway’s nice. It’s where all the rich folk live.” 

“Well, it’s in a great place,” Rory says, and then, almost urgently. “Every morning I see your friend run by. Where’s he go, anyway?” 

“Beck?” Oh, god. “He just goes running a lot. He’s got a lot of energy.” 

“Every morning.” Rory stresses that. “He’s a sprinter. I always just thought he was running to work. Always wearing a jacket. But he’s not heading for downtown.” Bryce can feel his generous supply of keen benignity seeping out through his shoes as Rory continues to talk, in a hushed voice, like this tiny rental home has been bugged by the shadow government that watches their every move. “Like he’s _running from something_.” 

Rory is short. Not embarrassingly short, but smaller than average—a head and a half shorter than Bryce, maybe. Bryce, tall as he is, avoids towering over people with a habitual slouch. As Rory talks, Bryce consciously straightens. No, he decides, Beck's natural wariness isn't rubbing off on him. He'd had good reason to dislike Rory Danvers. 

"You know," Rory continues blithely, "I saw that. When you dragged him away, I saw fire. Is that what he does? Is that why he's here?"

That's it.

“Listen, Rory,” Bryce snarls. He no longer cares about being polite, or about whatever social convention dictates when a stranger invites you into his AirBnB. There’s no more than a foot of space in between the two of them, and leaning forwards narrows the gap even further. “Beck goes running early in the morning because he works a full-time job and likes to keep fit. He wears jackets because he gets cold easily. He heads away from downtown because he likes running on the dirt path. 

" _Listen_ , Rory. If I were you, I’d treat us like normal people. We’re not freaks from the paranormal subreddit. We’re not side characters from your Netflix binges. We’re living here legally in a town sanctioned by the government and trying to carry out our fucking lives. You’re not entitled to know what magic spells we can do, and you’re _definitely_ not entitled to speculate about Beck’s—what, his fucking _demons_? He’s a private person, and frankly, if he heard the way you were just talking about him, he would probably try to get you kicked the fuck out of this town. And I would support him every step of the way. You don’t belong here, Rory, and even if you did, we don’t have to tell you _anything_ about our personal lives, or why we're _here_." 

Rory has that confused, scared look on his face, like a guy who went looking for ghosts in a graveyard but didn't expect to actually find them. Bryce doesn't like how big and scary he can be, but right now it's working. 

"You wanna hear what most people would say? I'm not in exile. I _love_ this town. I'm _here_ because I _want_ to be.” 

Rory catches a breath as Bryce brushes past him to the front door. 

“So nice of you to invite me in. Please mind your business from now on. _Thanks_.” 

The door closes, without even a satisfying slam, behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [oh mansies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0gFECzmDLrI)


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what oh my god its so long

_Bzzt._  
Bzzzzt.  
Bzzzzzzz bzzzzzzzzzzzz— 

With an exclamation that’s almost a word, but not quite, Bryce silences his cell phone. It’s 1:20 in the morning. He’s been asleep for seven hours. He focuses through the film of sleep that’s formed over his eyes. 

_working ten hr shift today jsyk_

_hey wanna meet &have dinner here i get an hr break  
wys says your asleep but when you wake up lmk_

_bry can you pick me up i cann’t drive rn_  
hey  
loser  
i wanna come home stat get out ass up  
your 

The last text was sent six minutes ago. He jolts up. “Ah, fuck.” 

_Don’t try. I’m coming now_

He pulls on a jacket over his bare torso and slips into his shoes by the time Beck can stutter a text back. 

_ohhhhh my god i lov u sleepy puppy man_

One of the perks of having wolf genes is being able to really hustle when he wants. Bryce likes his leisurely strolls, even under the baneful glare of the gibbous moon, but he hates the idea of Beck losing patience and trying to drive himself home. 

The moon herself is bashful tonight, peeking out from behind fluffy cumulus clouds. He counts himself lucky as she disappears behind them, leaving the light sparse and cottony. The sidewalk here on the edges of town sees only a few sad streetlights, half missing bulbs. His pupils dilate to accommodate. He winces. Whenever his body uses wolf energy to compensate for his human lack of defenses, it takes a little more out of him. 

At the pace he’s going, it only takes him fifteen minutes to get to Beau’s. Out back, where employees park, he hears voices and smells mingled brands of cigarettes and knows that’s where Beck is hanging out. The diner closes at midnight. 

“Hey,” he calls. Beck and his coworkers stop laughing. Among the tobacco, he can also smell pot. 

“Bryyyy,” Beck keens. “You caaame.” 

“Awwww,” says one of his coworkers. “You came for your boy.” 

“Yeah… um.” Bryce catches Beck as he reels towards him. The others are perched on the back of a beat-up pickup truck. “Are you all good? Do you need rides?”

“An’ leave my truck here all night? No.” It’s the same guy who spoke last. “I’m just sleeping here. I work the early shift tomorrow, anyways.” 

Beck wilts in Bryce’s arms. He’s very clearly the drunkest of all of them, and he seems to be the origin of the pot smell, too. “Aw, man, me too.” 

“Really?” Bryce holds onto him, slippery as he is, to keep him from stumbling. 

“Fuck.” Beck passes Bryce the joint he’s holding and pulls himself upright, like a cooked noodle trying to balance on its end. “Drive me home, boy toy.” 

This is the most embarrassing moment of Bryce’s life. 

“I'm not a boy toy. You’d be the boy toy if either of us were gonna be one.” He tries to hand the joint back to Beck, but Beck seems oblivious. “Does anyone else need a ride?” 

“I’m walking home,” the third figure says. It sounds like Jewel. “Beck, you gonna be okay?” 

“What’re you talking about. My oovoo javer’s here. Fuck off.” 

Jewel is unaffected by the swearing. Bryce suddenly remembers his explosion of rage towards Rory on Beck’s behalf and wants to hide in the trees behind the diner. So much for being a welcoming presence. 

He urges Beck back towards his car. “Give me your keys.” 

“Mmmhm. Mhm. One more beer for the road?” 

“No,” Bryce says firmly, dragging him to the car. “You have to get up early tomorrow.” 

“What if,” Beck says, wavering in his step until he’s leaning entirely on Bryce, “what if I just no-show. Like half the bastards who work here.” 

“Heh.” Bryce opens the passenger’s side and waits for Beck to clamber in. “Yeah, sure.” 

“I mean it. What if _they_ haveta cover _my_ ass for once.” Bryce closes the door on him and can’t hear him until he opens the driver’s side door. Beck chatters away, oblivious. “…oughta give me a raise, really, doin’ three people’s jobs for ‘em, not even getting overtime…” 

Bryce hazards a glance at him. His forehead is pressed up against the cold glass. He’s shivering. It’s October cold outside—thirty-five degrees, maybe, with a breeze. Bryce wriggles out of his jacket at the intersection and passes it over. 

_Why’d you have so much to drink on a weeknight?_ is what he wants to ask. Instead he turns the car’s heater on full blast and sticks Beck’s half-smoked joint in his own mouth. Has to free that hand up for the gear shift, anyway. “I yelled at Rory today.” 

“Aha!” Bryce’s jacket is just big enough to look goofy on Beck’s lanky frame. “You did NOT.” 

“Yeah. He was being, like, racist, kind of. I couldn’t deal with it.” 

“You already told him,” Beck gestures, “everythin’ about you. Your whole shit, the entire—shit, your tragic backstory and everything. What else could he want from you?” 

“I told him I’m a werewolf! That’s it! He didn’t ask about me. He wanted to know about…” 

Bryce doesn’t want to continue, but Beck seems to draw his own conclusions. He makes a big show of scoffing. “Me?” 

“He just sees you running in the mornings.” The car coughs and stalls. “Fuck.” It’s hard to urge the engine into gear on the hill that leads to Beck’s apartment complex. "He jumped to conclusions. He watches the X-Files a lot." 

“What? Does he think I’m running from committing arson somewhere?” Beck laughs. Bryce is—okay, Bryce is kind of glad he’s telling this story while Beck’s drunk. Sober Beck would be a lot grouchier about this. 

“No. He just watches too many crime shows.” The car finally starts up at his gentle behest. “Why did Willow think it’d be cool to invite him here?” 

“Well, I guess he got cleared by the big bad council, or he’d be," (a derisive snort), "shreds right now.” 

Bryce casts a sharp glance at him. They rarely, if ever, mention the guardians of Doorway or their deeds, even indirectly. The corners of Beck’s lips widen with the same mischievous look that made Bryce follow him around like a puppy in high school. “I mean, they almost tore _us_ up. ‘Magine how they feel about that son of a—” 

Bryce brakes hard enough to shut him up. They’ve arrived at Beck’s place. Beck processes the fact that they’re here, not at Bryce’s house, and his face forms a small, private frown. Bryce knows he’d prefer sleeping at the house with central heating and curtains. 

He stamps out the end of the joint he stole from Beck. “I’m crashing on your couch. You’ll thank me for the shorter drive tomorrow.” 

Beck doesn’t like making his apartment livable. That’s what Bryce has concluded after years of encouraging him to buy blankets for his couch, measuring cups for the kitchen, batteries for the smoke detector. Beck’s room is the only place that looks comfortable and lived-in, but Beck, for some reason, is hesitant to go there. He lingers near the couch, stripping himself of his layers until he's just in underwear. Bryce sees the fledgling yellow feathers on his elbows that kids in middle school used to try pulling out. 

“You need to go to bed,” Bryce mumbles, trying to make himself comfortable. 

“I don’t wanna. You’re sick. Need a blanket.” 

Bryce doesn’t protest until Beck emerges from the closet with the duvet cover that’s supposed to be on his bed. “What’s that in there for?” It's probably the most expensive thing in the apartment, and it's not even where it's supposed to be.

“Too flammable,” Beck mutters, throwing it at him. It exhales, shaken loose from the impact with the couch. Bryce hopelessly begins to arrange it on the couch. The activity proves futile when Beck flops on top of it. 

“Dude, get off…” 

Beck cackles and rolls onto his back. 

"Beck, I'm not trying to be the lame buzzkill friend, but..."

“You need a beer then.” 

“Beer makes me sick,” Bryce says stoutly, covering him with the rest of the duvet. He squirms like a kid under the covers. 

“You need a shot.” 

“No I don’t.” 

“You’re no fun.” 

“Yes I am!” 

“You _scolded_ Rory, didn’t you? You chided him like you’re his daddy.” 

“His what?” 

"His... eugh... _faaather_." A thin hand emerges from the covers and grabs at the floor. Bryce doesn’t understand what he’s looking for until he sees the TV remote, halfway beneath the couch. Against his better judgment, he toes it towards Beck’s fingers. The TV flickers on, squawking with protest, like an old, sickly chicken. It’s ten models the elder of the elegant wide-screen in Rory’s house. Has the same logo at the bottom, though. Funny. 

“You scolded him like you’re his faaah-thah.” He pronounces it like the ladies in Downton Abbey do. The home screen of Beck’s Roku flickers, forgotten, on the television screen. 

“Yeah,” Bryce relents. “I guess so. He was ticking me off.” 

“He’s jus’ a dumb outsider. He doesn’t get it.” 

Bryce wonders when they swapped positions on Rory. 

“Anyway, you don’t have to defend my honor. I probably look so stupid runnin’ in front of his house. That’s where I start gettin’ tired.” 

“You never get tired.” 

“Ha,” Beck says. His previous merriment is drained from the syllable. 

Bryce smells a mood change coming.

“You should go to bed,” he tries, again.

“Maybe,” Beck grumbles. “But I’m hungry.” 

“No you’re not. You’re drunk.” 

“I want a cheeseburger.” 

He turns and walks away. Beck arranges his face into the most bewildered, hurt expression he can until Bryce returns, a few seconds later, with a glass of water. 

“Here. Cheeseburger.” 

“Is not,” Beck grumbles, but obligingly sips it anyhow. Bryce seats himself on the unoccupied side of the couch, arms crossed, and watches until the water is gone. Then he goes and fills it again. 

“Nooo,” Beck whines. “I’m not thirsty.” 

“You will be,” Bryce threatens, sitting again. This time he pulls the duvet over himself. “Go to bed. I am.” 

“Only cause you’re a sick baby.” 

“Yeah, man.” 

The water has migrated, mysteriously, to the floor, untouched. Bryce props his chin on his hand and lets his eyes drift shut. Walking to the doctor’s office and back wouldn’t normally tire him out, but it just about matches up with how shitty he’s felt this week. 

“Hey. Hey.” A hand is patting his shoulder. “Bry. I don’t want to go to sleep.” 

“Mmm. Well, I do.”

“Bryce!” Beck’s voice is edged with a whine. 

Bryce opens his eyes. “Man…” But the look of pure delight on Beck’s face stops him from complaining before another word can squirm from his lips. 

“Can we do band practice?” 

“What?” 

“I want to practice. I want you to play me a song.” 

Disbelief sparks in Bryce’s veins. Why Beck thinks he’s any good at music, he doesn’t know. But if it’ll get him to hush up and calm down… “Any requests?” 

“Something… modern. I don’t wanna hear any of your old 60’s music.” 

Bryce frowns at him. “I don’t listen to any modern songs.” 

“You do too.”

“I…” 

He doesn’t. He can’t imagine trying to acoustically capture any of Beck’s soundboard-driven ambient tunes. “Where’s your guitar?” 

It’s in Beck’s room, the only thing not surrounded by clothes and dirty dishes and video game discs. He doesn’t bother trying to argue about the song era anymore; just sits and starts to play.

“Is it getting better,” he sings to Beck, “or do you feel the same?” 

Beck beams at him. U2 is a sure bet with him. And a good compromise. 

“We should do that one,” he says, into the cushiony part of the couch, when the song ends. “In the band.” 

“Yeah.” Bryce keeps holding the guitar even though he’s done playing. Beck is starting to give into the carbs and alcohol. He mumbles something else that Bryce doesn’t understand and turns his head so his face is engulfed in duvet covers. He seems to have forgotten about flammability. 

“You gonna sleep in your bed?” Bryce asks him. He doesn’t respond. Still wearing his red Beau’s Diner shirt, Beck has fallen asleep on the ratty couch. 

For all his sleepiness, Bryce can’t seem to get to bed himself. It’s his own fault for sleeping all day. It’s the moon’s fault for glaring white light through Beck’s window. It’s Beck’s fault for being mesmerizing even when he’s asleep. The guitar strings sigh as he takes his hand off them and places the instrument gingerly on the floor. Bryce sighs too, and only watches Beck for a few more seconds before it becomes creepy. 

He walks home. It’s cold. If he’d worn a shirt under this jacket, maybe the wind wouldn’t chill the zipper to ice against his chest. If he could control himself a little bit more, maybe he could arrive covered in fur and unperturbed by the weather. He sneezes. The moon does not waver in the sky. 

Wysteria is almost definitely sleeping when he arrives home, at almost three in the morning, and burrows as silently as he can under his covers. Then begins a long, painful night of insomnia. It’s simultaneously too early and too late when his phone buzzes with a text, indicating Beck has woken up for work. 

_thx for ride_  
never drinking again lolol  
eat breakfast @ beau if your not a coward 

He pretends to be asleep when Wys pokes her head in to say goodbye for the day. He’s missed several doses of his meds. He should take his meds. He’s going to get sick. He should get out of bed. 

He digs for the Tupperware container he keeps in his dresser drawer and gets pretty stoned off its contents. Wys is going to be mad at him for days because he doesn’t bother to open a window, but that’s what finally allows him to sleep. 

He dreams about Atlas. Atlas has a face the color of the sun and hair like wild grass, and he’s stark naked, like in all of Bryce’s dreams about him. In the dream, Atlas kisses him, sits in his lap, strokes his hair, kisses him again. He kisses Bryce’s chest, and his stomach. Feathered wings, the color of straw, flit and fold against his pale shoulders. 

Bryce emerges from sleep like it’s a swamp and craves a lukewarm shower. The slamming of the front door is what jostled him awake. Groggy, he processes Wys’ footsteps and calculates the best moment to slip past her to the bathroom. His calculations are off by a mile. She catches him in the middle of the living room. 

“Beck was looking for you. All day. He texted me like, thirty times.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Um. Four?”

Bryce remembers how many assignments are due on Monday and wants to curl up in a ball. “Sorry.” 

She gives him her special why-are-you-apologizing-we’ve-been-over-this look, punctuated by the pointed opening of the window. “You’re off your meds, Hernandez. Start apologizing when you can function by yourself. And go get something to eat. I hear you’re popular in circles you don’t live with.” 

“Yes ma’am,” he says, and even manages to sound sarcastic at that. He’s still kind of high. 

Too early to take his medication, but he’s starved. Beck has to be off work now, right? He starts to text him, then stops and calls instead. It rings too many times before Beck’s voicemail picks up. 

“Hi, it’s Beck. Why are you calling me? It’s the twenty-first century. Anyway, leave a message.” _Beep_. “ _At the tone, please record your_ —” 

Bryce hangs up on the robot woman and tries calling again. This time, Beck picks up immediately. 

“Dude, what? Are you okay?”

“Are you still up for breakfast?” 

“Uh.” Bryce can almost hear Beck, on the other end of the phone, processing that question together with the time on the clock. “Yeah, obviously. I’ll pick you up.” 

He’s there in five minutes, just in time for Bryce to pull on the first shirt he sees and dig out a matching pair of socks. 

“Hey.” Beck seems to grasp, of Bryce’s current state, what he couldn’t over the phone. “Jeee-sus, man.” 

“What?” 

“You look like a garbage fire.” 

“Shh. You're the hungover one. Let’s go to IHOP.” Bryce doesn’t want Beck commenting on his hair (uncombed), his eyes (dark circles), or his T-shirt (I “Heart” Watkins Glen!). It’s bad enough to be teased for the rainbow of collared shirts that make up his closet without also being teased for what he wears on off days. 

Beck’s gaze lingers on him. “Okay.” 

“Please watch the road,” Bryce says. 

“Did… man, did something happen?” 

“No.” And then he amends that. “Just a weird dream.” 

“About…?” 

“An ex.” 

“Mason?” 

Of course he’d guess the worst one. “Atlas.” 

“Weird.” Beck knows almost nothing about Atlas, other than a few old pictures Bryce hasn’t erased from his phone. “God, I want a pancake so bad, dude. You’re contagious.” 

“I’ve missed breakfast twice,” Bryce says ruefully. 

“Wow, it must suck so much not to have a job.” The sarcasm, if it’s in Beck’s voice at all, is undetectable. Bryce doesn't bother to argue that sorting returned books at the community college library is technically a real job. They've had that conversation.

The International House of Pancakes looks kind of sad in broad daylight. They hurry inside so they don’t have to look at its dingy American exterior, and because it’s even colder today than it had been yesterday. Bryce guesses it’ll snow in the next few days. It’s overdue. Vermont sees snow by August more often than not. 

The waiter seats them a fair distance from the only other couple in the place, and Bryce instantly wants to leave. It’s Rory and Willow. They’re on a date. Rory’s back is to them, but Willow recognizes them instantly and begins to wave like she’s on a yacht departing for Europe. So much for small miracles. 

Willow is taller, slimmer than her sister. She clambers over the booth to greet the two boys. Rory turns, looking absolutely lovestruck. She has that effect on people.  
The lovestruck look goes away when Rory sees Bryce. He has that effect on people. 

Willow doesn’t notice. She plops down in a vacant chair. She’s brought her water glass and silverware. “It’s been a million years since I’ve seen you. Oh my god.” 

Beck is grinning a grin that Bryce hasn't seen in a good few months. “How long are you back in town? Did you get a ton of time off?” 

“I’m here until Monday!” Willow has some sort of government internship—the kind where she’s never in one place for more than a few days. “So obviously I’m hanging out with Rory. Oh—” She twists in her seat to look for her date. “Have you guys met Rory?” 

Rory, for his part, is looking pale and reluctant in the booth. Willow beckons him over, unconcerned with his obvious reluctance. 

“We’ve met,” Bryce manages. 

“Only when he first got here. We were at Beau’s. Come on, Ror. I have to make sure your taste in pancakes is good enough.” Beck pushes out the last empty chair with his foot. Has he totally blacked out what Bryce told him yesterday? Or is he making this uncomfortable on purpose? 

Rory lugs his frame over to the table and sits. The chair is to Bryce’s left. Rory leans, whale-eyed, as though Bryce is about to lunge at him. 

“They keep giving me time off ‘cause they won’t give me a real salary,” Willow chats. “I get a stipend, though, so it all works out. Don’t need a car, either.” 

“Your life sounds awesome,” Beck moans. 

“You’re so whiny. It’s not that great. I work for the most institutionally racist company in the world.” 

Rory snorts in seeming agreement. 

“But you get to go everywhere.” Beck is slumped over with his chin on the waxed wood of the table. “You don’t have to do customer service.” 

“You’d be surprised, Sadik.” 

Bryce takes the opportunity to make eye contact with the waiter. He’s ready to eat, and to ignore the same complaining Beck does every time he and Willow talk.  
Rory orders what Bryce was going to get—a full stack of buttermilk pancakes and a side of bacon. Bryce changes his mind on the fly (keeps the bacon, though) and stutters through his request for the first thing he sees on the menu. 

“And a coffee,” he adds. Beck shoots him a look that he barely manages to ignore. He knows he shouldn’t be drinking caffeine. Doesn’t mean Beck, of all people, has to scold him. 

“Gimme an ice cream sundae,” Beck says when he’s done being judgy. 

Wys looks at him like he’s a genius. “Oh! Me too.” 

They go back to arguing as soon as the waiter leaves. 

Bryce eyes Rory nervously. Rory eyes him back. He looks guilty, Bryce realizes. And sad. And a little bit jealous of Beck. Bryce guesses he doesn’t know that Beck is about as interested in Willow as the sun is dark. 

“So…” he manages, out of a sense of obligation and extreme pity. “Why’d you guys come out to IHOP at four in the afternoon?” 

“Oh. Funny story,” Rory says. His cheeks are pink. “Um. She’s jet-lagged, you know? She was on the west coast until a few days ago. So I made a joke that I’d make her breakfast for lunch, and then she dared me to actually do it, but I—“ that self-deprecating laugh again— “fucked it up real good, so we came here.”

“Don’t joke about anything with Willow unless you want it to happen,” Bryce advises him. 

“I’ve sort of realized. She’s so funny.” Rory looks more comfortable, more natural, and he’s not leaning away from Bryce so much anymore. Bryce sees Willow glance at him out of the corner of her eyes and smile. 

“That’s one word for it.” Bryce catches her eye. She holds her gaze for a few seconds and raises one eyebrow. Did Rory tell her what happened? Is that what this is about? Or is she just doing what she always does? It’s impossible to tell. 

The waiter brings out their food. Bryce forgets what he was worrying about and wolfs down the bacon like a starved man. He’d been having a hard time with the coffee—always forgets he hates how it tastes—but he gulps that down too. 

Beck is eating his ice cream the same way he always does, rounding it out into a perfect dome by chiseling off tiny strips with his spoon. Willow, amused, is watching him. Rory, awed, is watching her. She’s already finished her ice cream. 

“A sundae for lunch?” Bryce doesn’t have a very good I’m judging you face, but he gives it his best shot. 

Willow raises her eyebrows at him, smug, and takes the spoon out of her mouth. “You’re just jealous.” 

“Ace is a free spirit,” Rory comments.

“Right. _Ace_ ,” Beck chimes in, leaving his ice cream sphere for a moment to take a jab. 

To Bryce’s surprise, Willow looks a little embarrassed at the nickname. 

“It’s just my internet name,” she says. “Rory has one too.” 

If Rory was pink-cheeked before, he’s magenta now as the combined attention of everyone at the table turns to him. “Oh, no, don’t…” 

“Cypress,” she giggles. Rory puts his face in his hands.

Beck wrinkles his nose and starts cleaning up his melting sculpture. “What, like, the tree?”

“It’s a plant used for comfort and healing!” Rory says, high-pitched, into his hands. “And you can use it for visions!” 

Willow cackles. 

“You actually believe that stuff?” Beck’s ice cream is irredeemably soft; he’s given up and dug his spoon into it, and he speaks through a mouthful of fudge sauce. “Like, you don’t just read about it and think it’s a cool but wild thing to run a website about?” 

Rory doesn’t say anything. Neither does Willow. 

“…Do you run a website about it?” Bryce offers. 

“Does anyone want the rest of my food,” Rory mumbles. 

Bryce wants more bacon, but thinks it would be weird to take it. Willow claims the leftovers instead, and Rory goes outside to smoke a cigarette and recover from the embarrassment of being exposed as an internet blogger. After a few seconds of careful deliberation, Beck decides to join him. 

There’s a brief reprieve before Willow turns to him, grey eyes steely. “Are you dating him yet?” 

Bryce chokes on his second cup of coffee. “What? N—” He grabs for paper napkins. “No, I told you, no, I’m not gonna date Beck.” 

She just looks at him. He feels as red as Rory. “Wouldn’t Wys have told you if we were together? Don’t you, like, tell each other everything?” 

“I’m her sister, not her diary. And she respects your privacy. I don’t, though. Are you dating him in secret? You guys came here as a couple!”

“We came here to get food! I didn’t eat breakfast!” 

“Oh, yeah?" She changes tack, subtly, trying to seem thoughtful. "How was full moon?”

She dumps out the little ceramic box of sugar packets and begins to build a house out of them. Bryce watches her. He knows her game, and he can’t think of a good way to sum up how his full moon was. 

“It was bad.” 

That works. 

“Sorry, Bryce. That sucks.” 

Construction begins on the second story of the Splenda house.

“So you’re not on a date?”

“Oh my god!” 

Nothing he says will convince her, and by the time Beck texts Bryce and Rory texts Willow to let them know they're paying, he's feeling even more frazzled than he had upon waking up. 

They meet the others at the counter. Large white flakes are melting into their hair. Beck is shivering violently through his thin denim jacket. The windows are shuttered, but white-grey light peeks through the gaps. 

Bryce yanks his card from the chip reader and heads for the door. “It’s snowing! Holy shit!” 

“I’m not going back out there yet,” Beck complains. “It’s freezing.” 

“It’s snowing!” Bryce repeats. No one seems quite as excited as him. “Come on!” 

“There’s nothing on the ground. It’s just wet and gross. I wanna warm up. You can go start the car if your dick is so hard for snow.” Beck has always detested winter, but he's not normally this cranky about it. Bryce chances a glance at Rory, wondering if something happened during their smoke break, but he looks just as guileless as usual, and even graces Beck’s harsh comment with a laugh. 

“We’re leaving,” Willow informs them. “I’m showing Rory how the portals at Beau’s work.” 

Rory’s face lights up. Beck, by contrast, has the dour look of a campfire that’s just been doused with water. He slouches for the door. “Fine, let’s go. I’ll drop you off at your place, Bryce.”

Beck spends three minutes picking music in the slowly heating car. Bryce tries not to stare or make noise or do anything weird. He wants to ask Beck what the deal is, but Beck doesn’t really work like that. 

Finally, the warm ebb of Beck’s favorite genre begins to flow through the car’s speakers. Bryce perks up. “What’s this?”

Beck grumbles an answer that gets lost behind the throbbing bass of the music and the rumble of the engine. He’s driving more carelessly than he should, barely squeaking past red lights. Another car’s horn sounds, fading rapidly into the distance, when Beck gets in the leftmost lane without checking his mirrors. 

“You’ll kill us all,” Bryce says casually. 

“Fuck off,” Beck snaps. 

Bryce doesn’t have a reply, so they fall into awkward silence. Guilt radiates off Beck like he’s a furnace. He drops Bryce off in front of his house. 

“Bye,” he mumbles. 

“Beck, are you okay?” 

“Yeah, dude. Just tired.” 

Bryce knows when not to push. “Drive careful.” 

Beck speeds off, not careful at all. Bryce can still feel the pulse of the music in his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [song one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lSwGrzx1wQQ)
> 
> [song two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XH8ALhYeLLk)


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whaaaaaaat?!?!?!?!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note to self: it took way too long to get to this plot point and i am livid (15000+ words?!?)

Thick winter clouds filter the sunlight, sharpening it to knife-point before it cuts through evergreen branches. It stopped really snowing hours ago, but the softest breeze sends a shower of flakes, like dandruff, from the foliage. The result is a glitter, a shine to the air as tiny molecules of ice move through the filtered light. Like nature’s rolled out a cool new Instagram filter. 

Bryce doesn’t have his phone or his clothes, as usual, but he knows it’s morning. As he hauls himself out of a snow drift, the chill of the below-freezing air tickles his nose and ears so he sneezes. The back of his throat feels like flypaper. 

“F-fuck.” He tries to force his jaw shut so that his teeth don’t chatter. Wolf Bryce made it deeper into the woods than usual, and being lost and freezing isn’t even the most dangerous thing out here. 

The back of his neck prickles. Bryce can feel his instincts, human and otherwise, screaming at him to get out before his extremities succumb to frostbite. He squints through the trees. They seem to thin out to his left. 

Thinking of warm, sterile IHOP and sizzling bacon, he wades through snow that’s calf-deep towards the light. With luck, he’ll make it to Grant’s in a few minutes. With slightly less luck, he’ll weaken to the cold and transform again. 

With marginally less than that, he’ll probably just freeze to death. 

Grant’s is the better option. Bryce thinks stolidly about how they’re open on Saturdays and Sundays from nine till noon, and tries not to think at all about how Trent is usually the one manning the counter on weekends. Trent has never seen Bryce naked, and Bryce had been hoping to keep it that way. 

“Freeze,” says a voice behind him. 

Bryce does that, partially metaphorically, but mostly physically. Ice crystals are forming around the corners of his mouth. 

“Hey?” His voice quavers. It’s the cold. 

“Tell me your name.” The voice is high and breathy, like a YouTuber who reviews Sephora products, but murderous. 

“Bryce H-Hernandez.” Still the cold. 

“Why are you out here?” Something metallic and hard pokes into his back. He yelps. 

“It j-just happens somet-times.” Okay. The quavering is not caused by the cold. Though whatever is touching his bare skin might take some of him with it if it’s ripped away. “I live h-here! I’m a wolf!” He hears the sound of snow crunching under boots. “I’m g-gonna freeze to death if I don’t get to Grant’s!”

“I’m gonna need to see your ID card and some proof of re—” 

“Bryce?” 

This voice is deeper. It sounds like a snake swallowed some gravel. Bryce squirms and tries to look behind him without removing the skin that’s touching metal. 

“Oh, Christ, Myra. It’s Bryce. Christ, honey, are you alright? We need to get him inside.” 

“J-J-Jo—” he stammers. 

“Save it for the indoors, pumpkin. Come on. This way.” A hand bigger than his own, robed in a fur mitten, takes his arm and steers him towards the clearing.  
It’s not nine o’clock yet, because Trent isn’t here, but Joanne has a key. She sits him down inside and orders him not to move. Unsure how much leeway this instruction gives him, he tries not to even shiver in the plastic chair. 

Joanne matches Bryce’s height inch for inch, even passes him if he counts the red hair piled atop her head. She wears a fur coat that reaches her knees and heeled boots that boost her already formidable stature a few extra inches. She could never quite shake the 60’s drag queen look she died with. Bryce doesn’t understand how she treks through the snow like that. 

“Full moon was days ago, honey.”

“I d-don’t think Grant likes people smoking in his shop.” Bryce’s fingers and toes are stinging from the sudden warmth. 

“Well, Grant’s not here, is he.” She takes a drag of her hand-rolled cigarette, scrutinizes him. “You quit smoking, didn’t you?” 

“Sort of.” 

“Good for you, honey. Get a handle on those transformations and you’ll be all set. You get a real job yet?” 

“I have a job.” He just wants to go home and take a steaming hot shower, but Joanne is almost like a mother, or what he thinks a mother would be—a concerned woman who asks invasive questions because she cares deeply and wants to brag about him later. “I work at the library.” 

“Mmhmm.” She sighs. “You didn’t answer my question, Bryce.” Bryce catches a glimpse of needle-point fangs in her worn smile. Is she being friendly or trying to intimidate him? Joanne would never hurt a fellow Doorwayer, but he’s still a little scared of her. It’s more of the drag queen thing than the vampire thing. She radiates authenticity. He feels dwarfed, a scared little gay boy trying to fit in with small town society, whenever he’s around her. 

“Werefolk don’t just transform during the full moon.” 

“Hm. And when else do they transform?”

“During waning. In midsummer. When we’re in danger. When we get sick.” He grits his teeth. “When we drink too much. When we feel too happy or sad or angry or whatever. When we breathe too hard. Just, like, whenever the wolf fucking feels like.”

She laughs, and he realizes, self-consciously, how angry and puffed-up he’s gotten. He deflates into the chair. “You know. Whenever.”

“Then why don’t you visit me more often?” 

“It doesn’t normally last long enough. I don’t usually make it to the woods. I dunno.” 

“You could visit as a human.” She frowns at him. Like a mother whose kid’s moved out. Bryce forgets that she’s not actually thirty; she was born before World War II. “You could come see me.”

“Yeah, and get jumped by more of your guardian friends. Sure.” 

“They wouldn’t jump you if they knew your face, and they’d know your face if you visited.” 

Bryce smiles wanly at her. “You must get lonely out in the woods.” 

“Some of our guardians are werefolk. Might be able to give you some tips.” 

“Oh.” A wave of self-consciousness sweeps over him. “That’d be nice, but I think I have to pass.” 

She just looks at him for a moment before leaning back in her chair. “Alright, honey. Then you’d better call someone to come pick you up. They’ll be opening any minute now.” 

“I don’t have any clothes…” 

“Then call someone who can bring you some,” she suggests, and stands up. “Duty calls. I’ll see you in another couple years.” 

“Um. Yeah.” She's definitely angry with him, but he doesn't see what he can do about it.

Beck has been M.I.A. since the IHOP trip two days ago—he even broke their Snapchat streak, which is usually Bryce’s job, and ignored his texts, which makes Bryce wonder if he lost his phone. Or snapped it in half. Beck only ignores texts if he’s drunk or asleep, and there’s no way he’s been either for two days. Hopefully. 

Anyway, he’s not available to drive out to Grant’s. Wys is, but she isn’t pleased about it. She’s at the school library. Perfect—that means she can use a friend’s car. 

“I thought you were at Sadik's place!” she says into the phone. “I seriously have a lit review due in three hours.” 

“I don’t know where he is. Have you been down to Beau’s at all?” 

“No, dude, it’s _midterm season_. I have _students_.” Bryce often forgets that’s a condition of her fellowship. Grad school sounds like a bitch and a half. One more good reason to stay in undergrad classes until he dies. 

“It’ll take, like, ten minutes. Please? I almost froze to death.” 

“I’m coming.” 

“I love yo—.” 

She hangs up. 

Bryce scowls at the phone. It’s not like he’s trying to be a burden on everyone he knows. It just happens naturally. Part of his charm. 

Well, her theory about medication making transformations worse was obviously wrong. It’s been five days and he’s taken about one of the required ten doses. If anything, forgetting his meds has made it worse. 

Wys arrives as promised in a friend’s Subaru, armed with the first things she grabbed from Bryce’s dresser: another T-shirt advertising some attraction in upstate New York, and a pair of ratty sweatpants from Bryce’s senior year stint on the swim team. She shoves the clothes at him with her eyes closed comically. “I never asked for this when I agreed to adopt a dog.” 

“I’m really sorry…” He pulls the clothes on with fingers that are still numb from the cold. “Whose car is that?” 

“Lisa’s. We were both working in the lounge.” 

They drive in silence. Wys drops him at home with a wave and a grin that both say she forgives him and speeds off again. Bryce hurries inside before his feet can process the cold again. 

A pair of pajamas lies on the floor, torn into shreds by canine teeth. Yet another fabric casualty of an unforeseen transformation. He digs through the scraps of fabric to find his phone. Still no texts. He does have an email from Ty Petkovic, though. Who the hell is Ty Petkovic? 

Bryce heads to the closest place first—the house where Rory is staying. Except Rory isn’t outside on the porch, welcoming him inside, and it’s a harder to knock brazenly on the door knowing what went down last time. In fact, he does it so softly, it’s a wonder that Rory even comes to the door. Across the threshold Bryce can hear some TV show playing on low volume. 

“Oh. Bryce. Hey.” Rory’s eyes dart. Seems he’s not as confident without a layer of onlookers and breakfast food. Neither is Bryce, though. He clears his throat. This is for Beck, not himself. 

“I was wondering if you’ve seen Beck recently?” 

Rory’s eyebrows inch towards his bangs. “No. I haven’t heard from him since the other day. Is everything alright?” 

“He’s, uh, kind of gone missing.”

“Does he do that a lot?” 

Emotionally speaking, he does it all the time. Disappearing from social media entirely? Not so much. “No. Not really. So you haven’t seen him running in the mornings?”

“No.” Rory doesn’t meet Bryce’s eyes. “I figured he agreed with you, about, like, me being a douche.” 

Now that the conversation has some bumpy momentum, Bryce bustles ahead without stopping to inspect that comment. “Did he say anything on your smoke break?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, small talk. We made small talk. I asked how long he’d lived here. He asked how long I’ve known Ace. Et cetera?” 

“Okay. Um, thanks.” 

He leaves, trying to puzzle out what in those five minutes could have affected Beck’s mood so badly. If Rory had said anything that bad, he would have figured it out pretty quickly. Beck isn’t one to hide resentment. 

The next stop is Beau’s, where he catches a waitress he recognizes from Beck’s shifts. She says, not without resentment, that he’s no-showed twice now. 

Concern mounting, Bryce heads further west to Beck’s apartment. He lives on the fourth floor and normally takes the stairs jogging. Bryce has to stop on each landing to catch his breath. This is the kind of building that would take everyone by surprise if it had a working elevator. He doubles over at the top of the stairs, panting, and contemplates joining Beck on his morning runs. 

Someone on the floor is singing; Bryce can hear it through the blood rushing in his ears. He stumps to Beck’s door and puts his ear to it. Yeah, that’s Beck’s voice, over the throb of music being pushed through a shitty Bluetooth speaker. Relief and annoyance release in endorphins and make his legs weak. He gives himself a minute outside the door before knocking. 

Beck’s sonorous voice dies into a tuneless mumble. There’s a scrabbling at the other side of the door as he looks through the peephole, then fumbles to unlock the door. Bryce steps in carefully, peering around at the room. It’s a disaster zone. Beck seems to be midway through dismantling his couch, and almost entirely the contents of his fridge. Piles of clothes, some folded neatly, some strewn and wrinkled, decorate the carpet. The speaker is hooked up to Beck’s phone, which is playing a pop song Bryce recognizes from Beck's car, but can’t name. A floor lamp has been tipped over and now leans against the window, wrinkling the blinds and its own cloth shade. The only thing in the entire living room that appears untouched is Beck’s violin, which sits, as always, polished and shining in its open case. Bryce stares at it as words form a traffic jam in his mouth. 

“What is… uhhh.” 

“Bry!” Beck is holding a Swiffer mop and a steaming mug of coffee, wearing a bathrobe that only just cinches shut above his belly button. His eyes are rimmed with red. He looks like he hasn’t slept since Bryce last saw him. 

“Yeah… what’s going on in here?” 

“My landlord said if I don’t clean the moldy shit out of my fridge he’ll kick me out!” 

“Is… is that why you disappeared for two days?” 

“No.” Beck pulls him further inside, where they both struggle not to step on any piles of junk. “I’m packing my things.” 

Dread creeps through Bryce’s veins. “…Why?” 

Beck looks him solidly in the eyes, leaning against the arm of the half-dismantled couch. “I’m leaving town.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this is what beck is listening to](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5VeIL7juFE0&list=PLaYD846rDeJHBwHjOLE0CIgyd3d-gMiNa&index=10)


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CONTINUED......

The dread is gone, and now Bryce is just numb. 

“What?” he says, because it feels like something he should say. “Why would you do that?” And when Beck offers no answer: “What about your job? And the band? And…” What about Bryce?

“Fuck my job. Fuck this apartment, dude. Fuck this town! I’m quitting. I’m leaving. I can’t live here anymore.”

“What the hell did Rory say that made you decide that?” 

“Rory?” Beck grimaces. “He didn’t say anything. I just saw a couple of people who looked happy living outside a bubble and realized I wanted that, too.”

Bryce feels like he’s scrambling for purchase at the edge of a crevice, or he’s driving on black ice and skidding out of control, or he's waiting to wake up from a nightmare. Or maybe like the world’s been flipped inside out. 

“You have… a lease,” he stammers. “You can’t back out until January.” 

“I’ll figure that out.”

“Where are you going? Where will you live? How are you gonna pay for—you have to think about this!”

“I’ll figure something out.” Beck is dogged, repeating himself, his back now to Bryce as he folds more clothes. “I have money. I have a car.” 

“You can’t just pack up and leave town on a whim!” 

“Why?” 

Bryce stops in his tracks as Beck continues folding the shirt he’s holding, smoothing out wrinkles with his eyes wide and wild. He looks desperate. He looks scared. 

“It’s not a whim. It’s—I—I have to.” Beck's eyes flicker at him for a fraction of a second before his gaze returns to his pile of shirts. “Listen, you—you—you like it here, you love it here. You came here and you loved it ‘cause you were a kid and I don’t think you ever stopped. But I’ve been here since I can remember and I grew up here and I can’t—I can’t stay here, man—I hate this place! It’s driving me batshit!” 

The pair of underwear he’s holding bursts into flames. He yelps and drops them.  
“Oh—no, no, shit—”  
The kitchen counter is piled with Lunchables, egg cartons, jams and jellies. Bryce yanks a plastic water bottle out of its 24-pack and dumps the contents on the carpet. Portions of the fire die in the splatters. Beck, recovering from his shock, stamps on the remainders. The flames give up and subside into the fabric.

They both stare at the burn mark on the floor. Beck takes a heavy seat on a stray couch cushion. “Fuck.” 

“Okay. Well, you weren’t getting your security deposit back anyway,” Bryce reasons. 

Beck puts his face in his hands. “I smoke weed in this place. No shit.”

Bryce hovers, unsure what to say. He knows when Beck has made up his mind. Anything else he says to try and make him budge will either make Beck mad or make him cry. 

“So. How’re you,” Beck says into the heels of his hands. 

“Um. I. Woke up in the woods again.” 

“Jesus. Why?” 

“I don’t know. It just happens?” 

“Okay.” Beck appears to be massaging his eyebrows. 

“You haven’t called work yet, have you? ‘Cause the girl working there seemed really…” 

A wave of dizziness hits him, fuzzing out his brain’s connection to his eyes and mouth. It’s like an advanced headrush—his entire upper half fills with the static that comes off an old TV when it’s switched off. He takes a step sideways to retain balance and scrunches up his face just to make sure all the nerves are intact. 

Beck is talking. Bryce blinks and tries to parse the words he’s saying. 

“…gonna take care of everything. When I’m not out of my mind. I just can’t right now, Bry.” 

“Okay. Okay.” Bryce concedes before Beck lights something else on fire. “Do you need help packing?”

Beck tasks him with sorting the food on the counter. A majority of it is old and molding. Bryce multitasks, throwing away almost everything while watching Beck chain smoke and excavate a pile of old mail looking for the title to his car. 

This can't be happening, which is a relief to Bryce, because if it were happening he might pass out. What is he gonna do, just drive away? No one drives away from Doorway, the only refuge for people like them. Bryce feels a phantom pain in vertebrae that don’t exist right now and reaches around to massage his lower back. Places like Austin, Texas and Albany, New York aren’t safe; places between those places are even less so. Beck isn’t leaving this town. No one leaves this town.  
Beck isn’t leaving town. Beck _is_ this town. 

He realizes he’s staring numbly at a bag of baby carrots. Before Beck can notice him zoning out, he sweeps them into the trash can. 

“Have you told Wys yet?” 

“No.” Beck tears an old paycheck into thirty-two uneven rectangles. “Guess I should.” He says it like it’s an afterthought. If Bryce hadn’t come over, would Beck have texted him before he left? Called? Left a note?

The world is shattering. Bryce picks up a bag of deli ham and begins to eat slices out of it. That’s the only normal thing he can think to do. Or is it? Is eating cold, bagged meat out of your best friend’s fridge normal? Is Beck even his best friend? Is he Beck’s best friend? 

Beck’s voice breaks into his frequency. “Dude. Stop that.”

Bryce realizes he’s chewing nervously on the empty plastic. Thoroughly scolded by his own self-consciousness, he opens his mouth and drops the morsel into the garbage. 

Beck has a look on his face that’s part exhaustion and part resignation. “Okay. Fine, okay. Bryce, what’s wrong.” 

Bryce replies with what Wys likes to call his tail-between-his-legs voice. “Nothing.” 

“If you’re upset about me leaving—”

“No, come on, dude, it’s okay.” 

“Bryce—”

“’Course you gotta get out of here. It’s fine, man. It’s part of life. Sometimes you just—” 

Bryce’s sentence stumbles and falls short. The side of his tongue aches—blunt eyeteeth, built for years of violently carnivorous activity, have crushed it, mid-syllable. He stares at the counter, eyes burning. No, no, no, he can’t be _leaking_ at a time like this. 

“Are you really—” 

His voice tears and he has to stop, again. The synthetic white countertop has faint, swirling patterns painted into it, meant to resemble some kind of expensive ore. The lines jag crookedly back and away from themselves, trying to create the widest space for themselves before they run into each other again. They blur before his eyes. 

“Are you really leaving town?”

Beck puts out his cigarette. “Do you care?” 

“You—” Bryce coughs out a wet laugh and tries to wipe his eyes, unsuccessfully, with his bare wrist. “—fucking idiot. Yes. Why are you leaving? You have everything you need here.” 

All the tension goes out of Beck in an invisible, tangible hush. His smile is as damp as Bryce’s words. 

“No, I don’t.” 

Fingers trembling, he begins to roll up his sleeves. Bryce sniffles and blinks at Beck’s bare forearms, which rarely see sunlight, and then his downy elbows. Beck plays with the feathers like he’s running his fingers through a shag rug; the motion is a backdrop, automatic, unnoticed to anyone not in tune with Beck’s small details. 

“I mean, you said it to Rory. Werefolk are common. There are dozens in town. You guys have monthly meetings. You have a registry, an email list. Wys has her entire family. People like Grant and the Jensens find each other. I mean, everyone in this town is here because they found someone, made a little clique with ‘em ‘cause they’re weird in the same way. All the guardians have each other. Everyone is comfortable here. Because they’re _normal_ in Doorway. But…” 

His fingers still, like he’s become aware of a habit he’s been meaning to stop. 

“I’m still the weird one. I’m still weird. And I know I have people out there, in those shitty little clans or whatever. I know I used to make fun of them, but I get it, how important it is to find your people. Everyone here has something. And I don’t.” 

Bryce feels rather pathetic for crying now, but he can’t just snap his fingers and magically dry his eyes. He doesn’t have anything to offer in exchange for the mini speech. “I’m sorry” is too pitying. “Thank you” doesn’t even make sense. “That’s too bad” doesn’t even begin to cover it, and “I love you” is completely out of the question. And Beck doesn’t like hugs. 

“I’ll text Wys later,” Beck offers when Bryce still hasn’t said anything. 

He nods and wipes his face again. 

“I don’t go to the meetings,” he says.

“How would that make me feel any better?” 

“I dunno.” Mortified by his own emotional response, Bryce attempts to justify some part of himself. “I’m still a weirdo. I mean, I can’t control it. I’m not really part of a—a pack.” 

“You’ve had plenty of chances to be part of things.” The response feels cold. Nothing Beck does ever feels cold. “You get people coming to your door, begging you to do werewolf things at a special werewolf camp. Come on.” 

Bryce is wretched. “But I—I’m scared of—” 

“That’s the point! You get to be scared! I don’t get to be scared! Nobody cares if I’m scared, ‘cause they’re all too busy being scared of me!”

“People aren’t scared of you.” 

Beck has feathers gathered between his thumb and index finger and is rubbing them, twisting them into thin yellow rope. He has a familiar manic grin on his face. Bryce realizes, with horrid timing, that he is scared. Of that smile. It’s the smile that appeared when Beck was caught, at fourteen, rolling a joint in the high school bathroom. It appears when he talks about lighting his pew on fire at age eight on a Sunday morning. It’s the expression that means he’s temporarily put caring on hold, because caring is too hard, and decided nothing really matters anyway, because things that matter hurt more when they go away. 

“Oh, you’re full of shit. People are scared of me, Bryce. Because I’m like you. I can’t control myself. But I don’t have any father figures or twelve step programs. I don’t have the Dangerous Book for Boys. I don’t have cool summer camps that teach me not to light shit on fire. I don’t have any of that. So this town doesn’t have _any _way to guarantee that I won’t snap one day and burn this whole place down. I’m done putting everyone through that, and myself through that. I’m leaving, okay, and I’m _sorry_ , but we can’t all wake up in the woods when we want to escape somewhere.” __

__The music throbs behind him. Beck digs in his pocket and pauses the song, roughly, so that the phone makes a dull clock noise._ _

__“I’m sorry,” Bryce mumbles._ _

__“Yeah. I know you are.”_ _

__“I can… I should… I should go to class.” A general rule that works, in this specific instance, as an excuse to get away._ _

__Beck sighs through his nose._ _

__“Probably.”_ _

__It’s gotten warmer in here by degrees, and Bryce’s shirt sticks to his armpits. The textured fabric is rubbing his skin raw. He tries not to look up as he passes Beck for the door._ _

__—_ _

__Wys isn’t home. She’s probably still working. That frees the place up for Bryce to finally take his hot shower, scrub the last of the frostbite from his fingers, and feel sorry for himself._ _

__The part of his brain that likes to analyze and re-analyze is yelling for him to mull over every word Beck said to him, try to figure out where he went wrong and what he did to piss him off so badly. But he doesn’t want to think about Beck right now. He doesn’t want to think about anything. As soon as he emerges from the shower, wrinkly and miserable, he grabs his phone to text Ralph Jensen, who had better be done fixing cars for the day._ _

__Ralph is an okay guy. He’s the metaphorical middle child; no stick up his ass like Grant, no awkward giggling like Trent. Sometimes he’s a little too macho, but Bryce imagines that serves as a sort of prerequisite for a career in auto repair._ _

__He buys good weed, anyway. They make their best attempt at hotboxing the living room while Bryce melts an entire bag of cheese over a bowl of corn chips. Ralph turns on a TV show about guys who fish. Bryce is skeptical. It turns out combining two of the most boring things on Earth—reality TV and fishing for sport—is the perfect thing to watch while getting so high you can’t process the normal flow of time anymore._ _

__Ralph leans back against the couch and looks lazily at Bryce. “So. Beck’s leaving town.”_ _

__Ralph’s nose is long and narrow and crooked. Bryce never noticed how weird it looked on his face. He squints and it straightens out. “When did he tell you that?”_ _

__“Dude. You did. Like, half an hour ago.”_ _

__“Oh. Well. He hasn't called work yet. So don’t… like…”_ _

__He puts more cheese in his mouth to represent the silence they should keep on the subject. Ralph nods slowly, like they've made a connection together. "My lips are zipped."_ _

__Bryce realizes it's become five in the afternoon just before Wys opens the door._ _

__“Oh, fucking Christ,” she coughs. “Bryce Hernandez, you are so dead.”_ _

__“I don’t think so.” He offers his wrist, if she wants to check his pulse._ _

__She looks at him like he’s insane. Maybe he is insane. Maybe that was a weird thing to do. He points at the bowl of chips. “We’re just hanging out.”_ _

__Ralph is talking too, saying hi, saying he doesn't want to intrude, he just thought since Bryce was..._ _

__Wys looks disgusted, probably at his weird, long nose. She points at the windows. “Open. Them. I can’t deal with this, Bryce. Seriously? This is the second time this week.”_ _

__Bryce begins the laborious process of opening the windows. Did he apologize already? Apologizing too many times to Wys usually makes her mad. But, especially in this case, not apologizing enough also makes her mad. Life is a conundrum._ _

__The trees are barren outside, and the ground is covered in a thin layer of snow. She must have walked home in the cold, which would make her already bad asthma even worse._ _

__“Sorry,” he says, but no one says anything back. He turns around. Ralph has his phone out and is rapt by its screen. Wys is nowhere to be found._ _

__The couch beckons to him. He wanders back in that direction to shove more chips in his mouth. She’s probably in her room, working her ass off while he skips class and gets high._ _

__“Bryce? Are you asleep?”_ _

__He opens his eyes. “Uh. No.”_ _

__“Okay. Well, hey, buddy, I’m gonna go.” Ralph claps him on the shoulder. “I have to open shop tomorrow.”_ _

__“Mmkay. Hell, maybe I’ll come through again. Maybe I’ll turn into a fuckin’ dog again. See you tomorrow.” His eyes are closed, so he can’t see Ralph’s face, but he hears a grunt to acknowledge that words have been said, and then fading footsteps. And then there’s nothing to distract him._ _

__He's still thinking. It didn’t work._ _

__Maybe sleeping will?_ _

__He ought to go to his room and sleep there, but the couch pulls at him. The food is also out here. So is the weird fishing show, which turned into a weird hunting show while he wasn’t paying attention. If he just listens to that, instead of to his own buzzing brain, maybe he can…_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [bryce listens to this at some point](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4sZuN0xXWLc)


End file.
